Hello Sweetie
by FirinMahLazor
Summary: A string of murdered bodies appear to have been moved all over the UK. Why is this happening, any why on earth are they all carrying the same lipstick-kissed buissiness card? A small amount of grossness, river/sherlock, implied sherlock/john.
1. Chapter 1

Hi guys! So, I recently noticed a small flaw on . There's no Sherlock/River! Well, you all know rule 35 of the internet... please review, I'm not sure if I'll carry it on or not... Enjoy! A, x

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><p>(John Watsons POV)<p>

The piece of plywood smashed down to the floor, and Sherlock dove ahead of me, into the dark, mouth of damp room in front of us, throwing the crowbar to one side as h did so. The building was pitch black inside, I followed him as best I could, sticking as close as possible to the splashing sound his boots made, as he bounded through the gutted cavity of the enormous building.

Suddenly, he seemed to stop, as the sound of his running ceased. I paused, pondering over the urge to call out to him, but there was no need. A few heartbeats later, there was the unmistakeable sound of rusted metal being wrenched out of place, and a thick humming seemed to emanate from the bowels of the earth itself. One by one, each row of dusty, dirty strip lights stuttered into life, casting a violently dim glow over out surroundings.

Sherlock was standing only a few feet from me; I was clearly getting better at keeping up with him. His hand was on the handle of a large generator switch, and he was grinning proudly to himself, like on overgrown kid.

We were inside an abandoned cotton mill, although it was hard to tell. Any machinery that had ever been here had long since been taken out, leaving a large, empty space, to collect dust. We were standing in an inch thick layer of mud, and fifty year old engine oil. I stirred my feet, trying to get rid of the grime, but to no avail.

"You know Sherlock," We both spun on our heel, to see Lastrade standing just outside the door we had broken down. "If that building comes down, it's your fault. We were meant to wait for the safety team..." From over his shoulder, three weary looking detectives peered over his shoulder.

"Yes, but that would have taken at least two hours," Sherlock was already walking across the room again, to a new door. "Leave it that long and this oil," he kicked his foot back and forth through the stuff, "could have started corroding the skin."

"That's nonsense Sherlock," Anderson had edged around his commanding officer, into the building. "Since when did engine oil corrode skin?"

"Since the oil in question was fifty years old Anderson. Now shut up." Sherlock had reached the door, which was apparently metal. I walked towards him, and saw that he was fingering the thin line, where the door apparently split in two, like a lift.

Lastrade came up behind us, rolling his eyes as he did so. "So come on then, what does the great Sherlock think this time? Where do we need to look?" He leant against the wall, eyebrows raised, hands in his pockets.

Sherlock did not look at him, but ran his hand once over the tattered metal in front of him. "Go away. Go and make Anderson get my crow-" But before he could finish, Anderson had appeared next to him, crowbar in hand, looking disgusted. Sherlock frowned at him for a split second, before snatching it out of his grasp, like a boy afraid to have his toys taken away.

Anderson walked away, trying to flick the grime from his shoes as he did so. The man in front of me wedged his new toy into the gap between the doors, braced one foot against the frame, and quickly threw all of his weight against the crowbar. The doors groaned, moaned, and then a hole started to form in the middle, growing slowly wider. When it was about half a metre wide, he seemed satisfied, withdrew the crowbar, and slipped the upper part of his thin frame through the gap. Lastrade pinched the bridge of his nose. I rocked backward and forwards on me feet for a moment, unsure of if I should try to stop Sherlock or not.

He twisted around, so that he must have been facing the inside of the door. With one hand gripping the doorframe, the other slipped through with him, and reached up to fiddle with something above his head.

Presently, there was a soft click, and Sherlock reappeared as the doors slid apart, to reveal and empty lift shaft. Two ripped steel cables swung in the gloom a few feet above us. Sherlock pulled and old Bakelite torch from one of the many pockets in his felt trench coat, and clicked it on. The soft beam of yellow light swung from side to side in the cavernous space. Then he swung it down. Three feet below us was the floor of the lift shaft. A bare floor of hard, grey concrete. It had recently been cleaned; there was no mud, no oil, and no litter. No trace of the thin, remaining cotton fibres that clung to the walls in the rest of the mill. It was even possible to make out a certain dampened in the corners, where someone had mopped it.

Only one thing marred the appearance of the space. A thin woman, in a grey suit, with blonde hair, lay in the middle of the floor, dead.

Sherlock gripped the torch in his teeth and jumped down next to her, before glancing up at me. "Would the good doctor like to give his opinion?"

I followed him down into the black pit, landing on the opposite side of the woman to him. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, I carefully, turned her head to the side, lifted an arm, twisted her trouser leg to see her ankle, where purple bruises littered the side of the gray skin. I straighted up. "Well, she's been dead almost two days, but I don't think it was here. The bruising shows she was originally lying on her side, someone's moved her."

"I thought as much. I doubt whoever put here is the killer."

"And why do you think that?"

By way of answering, Sherlock reached into the left inside pocket of the woman's dark blazer. He searched for a second, the pulled out a business card. Holding it up to me, I saw the words, written in red lipstick.

"Hello Sweetie"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, thin fingers pressed together on his lips. His eyes were closed, his crossed ankles on the arm rest. Over his head, the wall was plastered with pictures of bodies, sheets of notes, and lipstick covered business cards. On three were numbers, the last one was the most recent, "Hello sweetie", with a large red kiss mark. I turned a page in my book, I had finally got round to reading The Great Gatsby. I knew I had move three pages forward in the last half hour, but I had hardly taken it in. Like Sherlock, I was too busy musing over the bodies.

All of them had come back from the lab reporting poison, although different substances each time. It appeared that each body had been moved, the woman in the gray suit was found in Derbyshire, however, they had traced her murder back to somewhere around Essex...

None of it made much sense.

I looked up to the business cards. 1130, 3009 and 5467. Whatever that meant. I was amazed Sherlock hadn't sprung to some incredible conclusion yet; however he appeared to be confused as I.

He hummed quietly under his breath, musing over what I assumed was the events of the day before. Having got back to Baker Street late last night, he had been in the same place on the sofa for almost twenty hours now, stirring only to request tea two hours ago, which he had not drunk.

I fingered the faded corner of the pages in my lap, feeling the slight crumble of the well worn paper. Without opening his eyes, he reached up to pluck the first business card from the wall. The sleeve of his dressing gown slipped down a few inches, showing the pale, toned flesh, and the first of what would almost certainly be three nicotine patches. He held it in front of his nose, opened his gray eyes, and stared at it. He sniffed it, leaving a small smudge of the makeup on his nose. He poked out the end of his thin tongue, and licked it.

"Channel."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" I asked, closing my book.

"It means, John, that whoever we're looking for may not be a murder, but certainly is a thief."

"How on earth are you meant to know that?"

"Because if they could afford channel they could afford nicer paper. This stuff's crap. She's paid for the paper and stolen the lipstick..."

"How do you know it's a woman?"

"It's lipstick John, you figure it out."

The man had a point. The man in question now threw the card unceremoniously to one side, and swung his legs from the arm of the sofa. He swept out of the room, in his usual overly dramatic fashion, and a few moments later, I heard the shower start upstairs.

I stared at the clock ticking next to the door to the hall. 11:15. Definitely time for some tea.

I knew eventually I would have to tell him, tell him how I felt, but not tonight. I knew him well, better than he knew himself, and he definitely wouldn't listen if I chose tonight.

I filled the kettle, and placed it on the hob, before taking down two chipped mugs from the rack.

However, before the water had had its chance to boil, Sherlock was back down stairs, in his usual shirt and blazer. "I'm going."

"What? Going where?"

He had thrown his coat over his shoulders. "Out."

"Out _where_?"

"Out out. I probably won't be long."

"Do I need to come?"

"Irrelevant."

The clock ticked past 11:25 as he flew down the stairs, and slammed the door behind him. I sighed, irritated. I hated it when he did this. Walking to the large window, I watched him as he stepped out into the cold, dark night. From the light of the nearest streetlamp, He had picked up my scarf on the way out. Again.

He paused next to the street, and looked across the opposite row of flats. In the pooled light of another lamp, a woman leant against the black railings. She was tall, nearly as tall as Sherlock, and while she was clearly middle-aged, the years had treated her extremely well. Her thick, curly blonde hair bounced around her shoulders, and she wore a black, halter neck dress, her shoulders surrounded by a furry white shrug.

Sherlock crossed the road to her, where she kissed his cheek, and lead him up the street.

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><p>There you go, hop you enjoyed it! Final chapter will be up soon, PLEASE review, cheers! Az x<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stared at the business card in his hand. 1130. 1130. He glanced up to the clock on the self in the hall. The numbers flashed, 11:12. 11:12. Aha.

Sherlock threw the business card over his shoulder. He swung himself from the sofa and ran upstairs, purple dressing gown flying behind him. He stopped briefly at the calendar on the stairs, the 30th of September, the ninth month, 3009. In his room he grabbed the map of London, and threw it open across the floor.

He quickly found the coordinates for 54, 67.

He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, as he jumped in the shower. He hurried now, mentally feeling the clock ticking in his head, moving slowly to 11:22... Sherlock did not like to be late, unless it was beneficial, and this would NOT be beneficial.

He jumped from under the water and crossed back to his bedroom, hunting through the piles of clothes, throwing articles over his shoulder, where they toppled piles of newspapers. Eventually, he found his favourite shirt, which appeared recently ironed. Over the top he slipped on an old jacket, shoved his legs into trousers, which were quickly followed by some shoes, which John had insisted upon polishing last time that had been to Scotland Yard.

Back down the stairs, he told John he was going out. He was being irritating again and he knew it, but there wasn't time to care. 11:25. Down the final flight of stairs. He was early, good. He grabbed a scarf from the hat stand, and clicked the door shut behind him. The street was dark, except for the pool of yellow light from the lamps. Damp fog crawled along the tarmac, stealthy, foreboding.

Two people were watching him, he knew. From the floor above John would be looking out, to make sure he wasn't kidnapped, or run over or something else stupid. He always did that when Sherlock went out alone. He realised only now that he had picked up Johns scarf on his way out, but it was far too late to put it back.

Across the road, a woman was standing in the glow of a streetlight. He briefly took in her sleek, black dress, fierce mane of light hair, long, glittering red nails, like bloody claws. She was like an animal, dressed up in human clothing, but Sherlock wasn't complaining. He walked to her, taking his time. He stopped, just in front of her, a few inches apart; as she looked at him, head slightly to one side, a smile playing across her wide, red painted mouth.

She wrapped the fingers of one hand around his elbow, and leant forward. "I knew you'd figure it out..." and kissed him gently on the cheeks. He could feel the mark her lipstick made there, as she drew away, the same shade as on the cards... She smelled of perfume, it was warm, and inviting, yet at the same time warning, like a danger signal.

Still holding onto his elbow, she started to lead him away, knowing he wouldn't resist. The road was deserted, as always at this time of night. They walked in silence for a while, the only sound being that of the heels of her shoes, and even that was quietened slightly by the fog, which slowly grew ever thicker.

"Why?" he asked, breaking the silence suddenly, as they moved to the end of Baker Street.

"I had a weekend to kill." She answered, her voice low.

"And why me?"

"I had a weekend to kill." She smiled.

"When will you leave?"

"Soon enough."

"Will you stop moving corpses away from all their evidence?"

"Until next time I want to see you, of course."

"Of course."

She kissed him then, a lifetime of experience against none, her soft lips against his rough. It was firm, and although there was emotion in it, it was hard to tell which one. It was like a hot, trembling mix of love, and hatred, and interest, and excitement, and passion, and a weekend that needed killing. He hovered his hands over her waist, unsure of what to do exactly, but finally settled for resting his palms across her lower back.

After a few moments, she pulled away. "You're better than you give yourself credit for, you know."

"And how do you know how much credit I give myself?"

"I know many things about you Holmes."

She kissed him again, sliding her hand over his chest, down his arms. Feeling more confident this time, he put his hands on her hips, pulling her to him. He felt her laugh against his lips, but she did not pull away.

She pushed him backwards, gently, until his back was against a wall behind him. Swiftly, she removed his scarf, and stared on the buttons on his shirt. He wound one arm tightly around her, the other bracing himself against the wall.

This apparently was what she had been waiting for. Two things happened together, quite quickly. Firstly, a gentle whooshing noise started, somewhere just above him, like the sound of keys being carefully pulled over a piano wire. Just as he was about to break the kiss to find out what it was, he felt a soft snap of metal around his wrist.

He snapped his head back sharply, and looked down at the metal cuff that now chained him to the knocker on the door they had been standing by. He glared at her, but she simply laughed. "Oh you didn't think I'd make it easy did you. Weekend to kill sweetie, weekend to kill."

Suddenly, a voice shouted down from where the whooshing noise had stopped, a woman's voice, with a Scottish accent. "River? Where the hell are you?"

This was followed by a man's voice, who sounded irritated. "We haven't got all day to hang around rooftops you know. There's a nebula collapsing, and if I don't see the end I'll be upset."

The woman in front of Sherlock rolled her eyes as she stepped backwards, as a rope ladder dropped from above them, stopping just next to her. She picked up John's scarf from where it had fallen, and wrapped it around her head. "My love to the good doctor Sherlock." She blew him a kiss, as the Scottish voice called her again. Swiftly, she climbed the ladder, and vanished from sight.

Sherlock stared down at the cuffs. Bugger. Of all the times for this to happen. He tugged at them uselessly, and was just started to ponder staying there for the night, when the good doctor himself, appeared around the corner.

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><p>Hush, I know it's not my best, but I was tired, and distracted by glee. Thanks for reading, review and you get chocolate. PS, the ship name for Sherlock and River is Shiver ;) Love, Az x<p> 


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